


The Vigil

by torestoreamends



Category: Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter Friendship, Fluff and Angst, Godric's Hollow, Halloween, M/M, Malfoy Family Feels, Post-Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 10:40:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12579904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torestoreamends/pseuds/torestoreamends
Summary: Harry and Albus visit Godric's Hollow on Hallow's Eve, to join the vigil taking place outside the Potter's destroyed house.





	The Vigil

**Author's Note:**

> About a year ago I had the idea that maybe people hold a vigil outside Lily and James's house on Hallow's Eve, as a way of marking the events that took place there. I loved the image and briefly referenced it in a fic.   
> This year, when I was thinking about what to do for my Halloween fic, I thought maybe it was time to explore the idea properly!

Albus comes up with the idea on Thursday morning while they’re in Herbology. He’s elbow-deep in soil, sweating having spent half an hour wrestling with the adolescent Venomous Tentacular he’s trying to repot, and for some reason Scorpius is rabbiting on about pumpkins. It’s that that makes Albus think of it.

“They’re getting really big,” Scorpius says. “There’s one that I swear is the size of your shed. It’s _huge_. And on Sunday night we get to see them all carved.” He gives a happy sigh. “I’m so excited. I missed the feast so much last year. I think this year I’m going to try and drown myself in food. So much food. I hope they have those chocolate hats again, you remember the ones stuffed with whipped cream, and chocolate truffle, and-“

“Do you think McGonagall would let me miss the feast?” Albus asks thoughtfully, pausing in his battle with the Tentacular to wipe the sweat and mud off his forehead. 

Scorpius steps mid-sentence, mouth open, and stares at him. His eyes go wide and he opens and closes his mouth several times, doing a remarkably accurate impression of a Gulping Plimpie.

“Okay,” he says finally. “Say that again. Because I think I just hallucinated and heard you say that you were thinking of missing the feast.”

“You weren’t hallucinating,” Albus says, slapping at the tentacle-like shoots that have started curling their way up his arm. “I said I was wondering if they’d let me miss it.”

Scorpius stares at him again, apparently at a complete loss for words. Finally he shakes his head. “But... why? All that food, Albus!”

Albus picks his trowel up and starts dumping earth onto the Tentacular’s writhing roots. The plant hisses at him and tries to snap at his fingers, but he slaps it away. “Shut up, for Merlin’s sake. You’ll be happier in the bigger pot.”

“I think it’ll be nice,” Scorpius says, absently stroking one of the tendrils of his Tentacular, so it curls up on the desk, trembling with delight. “People don’t hate us anymore, so it won’t be miserable, and-“

“I was thinking about the pumpkins,” Albus says, glancing across at Scorpius. “The ones that we saw last year. In Godric’s Hollow.” 

Scorpius twirls the tendril of his Tentacular round his finger and it snakes up his wrist. “Oh.” 

“Is it stupid to want to see them again?” He pats the earth down around his Tentacular, then uses a Watering Charm to sprinkle a gentle, rain-like shower over the plant. It shakes its leaves like a dog, splattering both Albus and Scorpius. 

Scorpius wipes the water off his face and frowns. “I don’t think it’s stupid. They were very beautiful... Do you want to go on your own? Because I don’t think that’s sensible. You told me what it was like visiting again over the summer. It’ll be worse on Halloween, won’t it?”

Albus swallows, and dusts some of the earth off his hands. He glances out of the window at the rain-sodden vegetable patch, carefully avoiding Scorpius’s gaze. The rain is pattering on the glass panes of the greenhouse, washing out the view and making it blurry. In the distance he can just make out the Whomping Willow, which is swaying its branches back and forth, but it’s obscured by the raindrops. They hit the glass and trickle down, running in rivers from the top of the roof near the ventilation shaft, right down to the soggy earth at the base of the wall. 

“There’s this... vigil,” he says, still not looking at Scorpius. “Outside the house. Outside the ruins. Dad mentioned it when he wrote to me... I think he’s thinking about going this year. And I think-“ Albus shrugs. “I think I might want to go with him. You know, see the house; the pumpkins; remember last year...”

“Does he know you’re thinking about going?” Scorpius asks.

Albus shakes his head. “I only got the letter this morning. But I might write back and ask if he can talk to McGonagall about it.” He looks at Scorpius. “Would you be lonely without me?”

Scorpius gives a small smile. “I’m always lonely without you.” He untwists his hand from the grip of the Tentacular, which wilts like it’s sad without him. He gives it a consolatory pat, then drapes the tendril into the pot and starts shovelling earth in. “I think it’s a good idea though. It won’t be easy, but you two have been doing well recently, haven’t you?”

Albus nods and flicks a tentacle away, to stop his plant trying to sting his face. “Yeah... I can’t imagine spending Hallow’s Eve away from him now. Is that strange?”

“Not at-“ Scorpius begins, but at that moment his Tentacular realises it’s being buried alive and shoots up out of the mound of earth, spraying dirt all over Scorpius. He splutters as it hits him in the face and quickly wipes it away. “Sorry,” he tells the plant. “Sorry sorry. Didn’t see you there.” The plant coils away from him, looking upset, and he sighs and puts his trowel down, turning to Albus. 

“It’s not strange, Albus. I understand, I-“ He pauses for a moment. “I actually understand perfectly. You should write to your dad about it tonight. And I-“ He turns back to his plant, wielding the trowel. “Should make friends with my Tentacular again. I think it’s having a strop with me.”

While Scorpius communes with his plant, cooing at it and stroking it until it’s back on speaking terms with him again, Albus plans his letter to his dad in his head. And by the time the bell clangs through the Greenhouse, telling them all to pack up and run to the castle for dinner, he thinks he knows what he’s going to say. At the very least, he’s determined that this Halloween will be spent in Godric’s Hollow with his dad. Just the way it should be. 

 

Albus sits cross-legged on his bed in the silent dorm, his dad’s letter smoothed out across his lap. Scorpius is at Gobstones Club, he has no idea where the other boys are, but it’s not too late on this miserable Thursday evening, so they’re probably holed up by a fire somewhere and won’t be back any time soon. The dorm is dark and cosy, and there’s a distinct comforting feeling of being underwater when it’s raining overhead; something special about the light that makes Albus feel very safe, cushioned from the outside world by the blue-green depths of the lake. 

He’s taking advantage of this rare pocket of Scorpius-free time, which he’d normally spend missing Scorpius’s noise and energy, but today has a purpose for. He’s never been very good with words, especially not when it comes to his dad. Finding the right thing to say is a nightmare, and he so often says exactly the wrong thing. But today he wants to get it right. Somehow he needs to explain that coming to the vigil on Sunday is really important to him, and he wants to explain why, but every time he tries to put quill to parchment the words dry up inside him. It’s only getting more frustrating as his free time evaporates. 

He shoves his parchment and quill away and bows his head to read his dad’s letter again. 

_Dear Albus,_

_I hope you’re doing well, and that James isn’t being too insufferable about the Quidditch standings. I’m sure you’ll catch up to Gryffindor soon enough._

_I’ve heard the weather is awful up there. It’s pretty grim here too, but I can’t imagine it’s fun doing Care of Magical Creatures in a torrential downpour. There are some really nice, simple Waterproofing Charms that Fawcett told me about if you need any recommendations, although I’m sure you and Scorpius have it covered between you._

_It’s Hallow’s Eve on Sunday. I bet the preparations for the feast are going well. How big are the pumpkins now?_

_I was actually thinking of going to Godric’s Hollow on Sunday. I normally try to avoid it on Hallow’s Eve – too many people about – but this feels like a good year to go, especially after everything that happened last year..._

_Do you remember that vigil we saw when we came back to our time, with all the people outside the house? I think I’d like to see it, properly this time, not just from a distance. I’ve been curious about the people who go and remember my parents every year._

_I haven’t run the idea past your mum yet. I’m not even sure if I will – if I went to the vigil I might not have time to come and see you; we’re not Apparating back from the Grindylow job until lunchtime._

_I hope you know that I miss you, especially now Hallow’s Eve is nearly here. I love you very much, and I can’t wait to see you soon._

_Constant vigilance._

_Love, Dad_

It should be such an easy response to write: _Hi, Dad. You should go to the vigil and I’ll meet you there. I hope the Grindylows go okay. Love, Albus._ It really is just that simple. But at the same time it really isn’t that simple. There’s no good way of putting all his thoughts into words. There are some things he just can’t say. 

_Sometimes I still think about Grandma tucking you up under the blanket, and how I thought I would die before I got chance to tell you how much she loved you._

_Whenever I remember that it’s Halloween on Sunday I remember the ash falling on us all like snow, and I just want to find you and hug you and tell you I’m sorry._

_I wish I could take you back in time again and show you your parents, and your beautiful house, and your cat. I wish you could know them._

_I want to go to Godric’s Hollow with you because it was where we started fixing things, and I’m really glad we did. I’m really happy that you’re my dad._

The second he phrases any of it out in his head it sounds stupid and childish and ridiculous. It all sounds forced, like that’s what he thinks he’s supposed to say, but it isn’t actually what he means. Why is it so hard to write words down and have them mean what he wants them to mean?

Frustrated, he crumples the bit of parchment he’s been trying to start his letter on into a ball and hurls it at the fireplace. It bounces off the mantelpiece and rolls across the emerald green hearth rug. With an irritable growl, Albus drags himself off the bed and stalks across to the fireplace to snatch up the parchment. This time when he throws it, the ball lands perfectly in the middle of the flames and begins to char and burn as flames curl across it. Albus stares into the heart of the fire, and-

The fire. 

Maybe he’s doing this all wrong. Maybe he shouldn’t try to write everything down. Maybe he should just call his dad and tell him. Wouldn’t that be easier? At least then he’d be forced to say something. It might not be what he wants to say, but it would be better than staring at a blank bit of parchment for the next three hours. 

There’s Floo Powder on top of the mantelpiece, and he takes a pinch and holds it in his hand. Some of it cascades between his fingers, making a mess on the ash-strewn hearth.

For a moment he stands there, indecisive and uncertain, then he throws caution to the winds and tips the Floo Powder into the flames. He kneels down on the rug and sticks his head into the fire. 

“Holly Cottage,” he says, as clearly as he can without getting a mouthful of ash. Immediately his head begins to spin, and he squeezes his eyes shut until the motion stops and he can open them to see his parents’ front room. 

His dad isn’t there, but his mum is. She’s sitting on the sofa by the fire, reading a book, but apparently she hears the little pop as he arrives because she glances into the flames and her eyes widen as she recognises him.

“Albus!” She sets her book aside and rushes to the fireside, kneeling on the rug so she’s at his level. “This is a nice surprise. I didn’t know you were planning to call. Is everything okay?”

Albus nods. “I’m okay, Mum. Everything’s fine.” He opens his mouth to ask to speak to his dad, but then backs out at the last second. “How are you?”

She smiles. “I’m well. It’s been a busy day at work, and the weather is playing havoc with the match schedules. But on the whole it’s not too bad. Has James stopped gloating about Saturday yet?”

Albus rolls his eyes. “James never stops gloating about anything. I’ve been avoiding him.”

“That’s very wise. I’m sure he’ll calm down soon enough.”

“Yeah,” Albus says absently. He shuffles his knees on the floor and thinks about how this time last year he had no idea what the Quidditch scores even were. Panju had tried to drag him to a match in the other world, but he’d refused. And by the time he was back in his own world, Quidditch had been the last thing on his mind. A lot has changed in a year. A _lot_ has changed. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” His mum asks, and he becomes aware that she’s frowning at him, one hand outstretched to him like she wants to reach for him through the fire. 

He swallows and nods. It’s time to just get on and do this. No more messing around. “I-I’m okay,” he says softly. “I was actually... I was wondering if I can talk to Dad?” 

His mum scrutinises him. He can feel her trying to read him across the miles, and he avoids her gaze, because he still doesn’t know what he wants to say, and he doesn’t want to give her any inkling of what’s going on in his head. After several seconds, she pushes herself onto her knees. 

“He’s just upstairs. I’ll go and get him.”

She disappears from the room and Albus tries to gather himself together. It’s just his dad. It’s just a nice thing to do for Hallow’s Eve. It’s nothing scary or difficult. It shouldn’t even be that hard to propose; it was his dad’s idea first. There’s nothing for him to worry about.

By the time he hears his dad’s footsteps on the stairs his hands are shaking. He doesn’t know how they can shake when they’re planted firmly on the hard stone hearth and they’re all that’s keeping him upright, but they’re managing it. He also feels a little bit sick, but that might be the motion sickness from getting here finally catching up to him, or it might be that he’s swallowed too much ash.  Either way, he hasn’t managed to calm down much. 

His dad is still dressed for work, but he doesn’t look put together. His glasses are askew and there’s a bit of hair on top of his head that’s sticking bolt upright. The rest of it is puffed up and jutting out at odd angles, like he’s raked his hands through it multiple times. Albus guesses he’s been reading papers for the Grindylow mission. Nothing makes his dad look stressed like paperwork. 

His dad strides across the room and throws himself down in front of the fireplace, an expression of deepest concern on his face. Albus panics. 

“I’m _fine_ ,” he says, before realising that he hasn’t even managed to greet his dad. Now he just sounds suspicious. He groans. “I really am, I promise. I just wanted to talk.”

“On a Thursday evening while Scorpius is at Gobstones and you’re alone in your dorm,” Harry says, because he isn’t the best Auror in a generation for nothing. Sometimes he works things out. 

Albus sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “I got your letter,” he says. “I wanted to talk about it.”

Harry frowns. “Oh yeah?”

Albus nods. “Yeah...” He pauses and there’s a long, expectant silence in which his dad looks at him and waits. Eventually Albus decides he should probably carry on talking. 

“I, um... the vigil you were talking about... Are you still thinking of going?”

Harry sits back on his heels. “Oh!” Apparently that wasn’t what he was expecting. “I’m not sure. We’re not expecting the Grindylows to go smoothly so we might be there a bit longer than planned. I don’t want to not visit you if we’re running late. You’re more important.”

Albus feels very warm all of a sudden, and he’s not sure it’s just from the fire. He always feels like this when his dad says something nice to him, like he’s not sure where to go or what to do, confused and trapped but happy all at once. 

He swallows and nods. “Okay...”

“Why do you ask?”

Albus looks at his dad and discovers that his mouth has gone dry and he can’t really speak. He swallows again and takes a breath. When he inhales he gets a mouthful of soot and has to suffer through a brief coughing fit before he can have a second go at talking. 

“I, um-“ he says, voice sounding choked from the ash. “I was thinking that-“ He coughs again, then struggles on. “Maybe we could- maybe it would be nice to- The vigil- I wanted to go too. You know. With you. If you decide to go.” He breaks off and starts coughing again, which is actually welcome because it means he doesn’t have to see his dad’s reaction. When he finally recovers, eyes watering and throat dry, he sees that his dad is offering him a bottle of water using the fire tongs. 

“Drink something,” his dad advises. “It’ll help.”

Albus hesitates for a second, then he opens his mouth and takes a careful drink of water, trying not to let it spill everywhere. 

“Better?” Harry asks.

Albus nods. “Better. Thanks, Dad.”

Harry puts the water bottle and fire tongs down, and looks at Albus. “Do you really want to come with me?”

Albus looks back at him and nods. “Yeah. I-I do. I think it’s- It feels important. And it would mean you can go to the vigil _and_ see me. You wouldn’t have to choose...” He trails off, looking hopefully out of the fire at his dad. 

Harry sits on his heels and looks at the hearth, a tiny crease in his forehead. “I didn’t think you’d want to go. I just assumed- If I’d known I would have invited you.” He looks at Albus. “I’m sorry I didn’t think of it before. Of _course_ you can come. Of course we can go to the vigil together. I can’t believe you actually- Are you _sure_ you want to do this?”

Albus gives an emphatic nod. “I really am sure. Really really.”

Harry looks at him like he’s a conundrum, then gives his head a little shake and unleashes a bright smile. “Well in that case I’ll have to make doubly sure the Grindylows are finished on time.”

“If we get there early enough we could watch them lighting the pumpkins,” Albus says. “I hope they still do that. It was beautiful. All these rivers of people filling the streets with all these pumpkins... I’d like to show you that.”

Harry’s smile widens and he nods. “Yeah, I’d like to see that too. I’d like to see it with you.”

“I think it could be good,” Albus says. “For the two of us.”

“Definitely,” Harry says, with his most emphatic nod yet. “Definitely. I’ve never been more excited for it to be Hallow’s Eve.”

Albus grins, and he feels as though someone has cast Wingardium Leviosa on him and he’s weightless, floating light as a feather in his delight. This has gone even better than he hoped. 

“So,” he says, deciding to change the subject before he discovers that this is all too good to be true. “What are you doing with the Grindylows?”

Harry launches into a lengthy explanation about a recent flurry of attacks in a town on the edge of a Scottish loch, and how the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures had tried to rehouse them but they’d just come back, so now a small team of Aurors is going in to put up protective charms around the harbour and ward off the Grindylows once and for all. 

The conversation stretches on and on, and Albus asks question after question, each one feeling like a little bubble of happiness floating up inside him, because he has his dad’s rapt attention, and he still isn’t entirely used to it yet but it’s wonderful. They must have lost all track of time though, because suddenly Albus hears the door open and Scorpius’s voice saying his name.

Albus glances round at him. “I’m talking to Dad. Is it that late already?”

Scorpius nods. “One hour until curfew. The others might be back soon.” He walks over to the fireplace and crouches down next to Albus, sticking his head into the green flames. “Hi, Harry!”

Harry smiles. “Hello, Scorpius.” He looks at Albus. “I should let you go. Don’t you have homework?”

Albus grins. “Only Defence Against the Dark Arts. It’s easier to just chat to you.”

Harry shakes his head. “Go and do your homework. I’ll see you on Sunday.”

Albus sighs. “Fine. Bye, Dad.”

“I love you. Be good.”

Albus’s grin splits his face. “I’ll do my best.” He gives a little wave, then pulls his head out of the fire and falls back onto the hearth rug, the world spinning around him from the disorienting journey back. 

“He’ll see you on Sunday,” Scorpius says. “You’re definitely missing the feast then?”

Albus picks himself up and dusts soot out of his hair. “It looks like it.” He looks at Scorpius. “Will you be lonely?”

Scorpius gives a little smile. “It’ll be weird. Spending Hallow’s Eve without you. Especially after last year. But...” He shrugs. “It’s important for you to spend it with your dad. You should have some time to think about your grandparents, and everything that happened. I’m glad you two get to spend it together.”

Albus picks at the sleeve of his hoodie. “It’s not because I don’t want to spend it with you. You know that, right?” He glances at Scorpius, then away again, out towards the murky green water beyond the window. “If there was anyone in the world I could spend it with, it would be you or dad. I hate choosing between you. I’m sorry.”

Scorpius smiles. “Albus, I know there’s no choice here. If it were a choice between you and my dad I think I’d choose my dad too. That’s just... How it is I suppose. It took us so long to figure things out with them. I think we should take every chance we get. I think _you_ should take every chance you get. And don’t feel guilty about leaving me.” He grins and gives Albus a friendly punch on the arm. “Without you there’ll just be a little bit more food for me to eat.”

Albus nudges him. “You’ll have to save me some sweets. Maybe we can have our own midnight feast when I get back.”

“Do you really think there’ll be leftovers by the time I’m done?” Scorpius asks, eyes alight with mischief. “Uh, nope! I don’t intend on leaving even a scrap on that table.”

“Well in that case I’m glad I’m not going to be here,” Albus says. “I won’t have to deal with you while you’re throwing up.”

Scorpius laughs and flops down onto the hearth rug, so his feet are pointing to the fire. He rubs his stomach and gives a happy sigh. “I can taste it already. It’s going to be beautiful.”

Albus lies down next to him and rolls onto his side, so he can look at Scorpius, who’s practically glowing in the firelight. “You are aware that you’re ridiculous?”

Scorpius opens one eye and grins at him. “Very much so.” 

“Good.” Albus falls onto his front and kicks his feet up in the air, resting his chin on his hands. He stares into the shadowy space under his bed and a wave of nervous excitement creeps through him. “Do you think it’ll be weird?” He asks. “Going back there? I know I went over the summer, but... it’s different if it’s on Hallow’s Eve... It’s more...” He shakes his head, at a loss for the right words. 

“Potent?” Scorpius suggests. “But cathartic.”

Albus gives him a sideways look. “Have you been reading the dictionary again?”

Scorpius bumps their shoulders together. “No. I’m just saying, you’re almost making me wish I was going too. I’d like to take my dad back there sometime...” He trails off, and his gaze becomes opaque as he stares at a spot on the ground just a few feet away, like he’s lost somewhere else, probably Godric’s Hollow one year ago.

“You should go,” Albus murmurs, glancing at him, watching the shadows flicker across his face as the flames dance behind them, bathing him in a warm orange glow. It makes Albus think of the flames from a year ago, the fire of the battle, and Scorpius crouching behind his dad, clinging to his waist, small and scared but strong. Trusting. Somehow knowing, just like Albus had, that they’d be okay as long as their dads were there. 

“You should go and tell him all about the history, and find the spot where he hugged you, and-“

“I’ll think about it,” Scorpius says, and his voice is soft and a little bit broken. He blinks several times, and his eyes sparkle like stars. He sniffs and pushes himself up onto his elbows. “Anyway.” He pushes a bright smile onto his face and reaches across to pat Albus on the shoulder. “Our Defence Against the Dark Arts homework won’t do itself. I need you to tell me everything your dad has ever told you about werewolves.”

Albus sits up and brushes ash and Floo Powder off his pyjama top. “I can do better. James stole all Teddy’s notes and essays on werewolves from fifth year, and I stole them from James. They got full marks. I’m sure we can do something with those.”

“I love your family,” Scorpius says happily, hopping up off the floor and offering Albus a hand up too. “Let’s engage in some creative adaptation.”

 

At mid-afternoon on Sunday, Albus and Scorpius sit side by side on the front steps of the castle, wrapped up in their thick winter cloaks. Albus has a bobble hat stuffed on his head and a scarf wound tight round his neck. Scorpius insisted he was good at handling the cold and didn’t need either. He’s now shivering and huddling against Albus’s side for warmth. Albus isn’t even bothering to gloat. He knows Scorpius has already learned his lesson, even if he’s too proud to admit it right now.

The sky overhead is a very bright blue, and there’s a weak sun shining down on the grounds, making the choppy grey waters of the lake glitter. The Giant Squid is splashing in the shallows, tentacles curling and writhing, and in the distance Albus can see the skeletal shape of one of the Thestrals grazing at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. He shivers and presses closer to Scorpius, who takes the opportunity to hug his arm for more warmth. 

“How long is your dad going to be?” Scorpius asks, teeth chattering. “I might turn into an ice cube before he gets here.

“You don’t have to wait,” Albus says. “Go inside and keep warm.”

Scorpius shakes his head. “No. I said I’d sit with you and I’m not backing out now. Anyway look, we can keep an eye on the pumpkins.”

He points to where a couple of the teachers are standing by the pumpkin patch, casting charms to carve intricate and beautiful patterns into the faces of some of the biggest pumpkins Albus has ever seen in his life. 

“Do you think we could do that?” Scorpius asks. 

“ _You_ could do that,” Albus says. “I know I’m good at charms but I’m not _that_ good. I’m not very good at artistic stuff anyway, even if I could do the spells.”

“You don’t have to be good to do pumpkin carving,” Scorpius says. “The whole point is to have fun. That’s what Mum used to say anyway. Dad would make it a competitive sport. Dad makes _everything_ competitive.”

Albus smiles. “I actually miss carving pumpkins. We used to sit in the kitchen at home and do it, and Mum would make us spiced hot chocolate. Dad taught us to do it the Muggle way, and James used to hate getting all the pulp on his hands.”

Scorpius pulls a face. “The pulp is the best bit. James has no sense of fun.”

“James is boring,” Albus agrees, throwing a glance up in the direction of Gryffindor Tower. “Maybe next year we should carve pumpkins together. We could do it by magic and call it N.E.W.T. practice.”

Scorpius grins and holds his fist out to Albus. “You’re on.”

Albus taps his knuckles against Scorpius’s and leans comfortably into his side, draping an arm round his back. Scorpius nestles in closer, still shivering, and Albus rubs his shoulder to warm him up. 

As they sit there, Albus gazes off in the direction of the gates and tries not to worry too much about his dad arriving; what he’ll do, what he’ll say. He hasn’t thought this through at all. Why didn’t he consider this before he asked if he could go? He has to spend a whole afternoon with his dad, alone, trapped among all their emotional baggage and history. And with that thought his mouth starts to go dry, and there isn’t quite enough air anymore, and he’s tempted to run and send an owl to his dad to tell him not to come even though it wouldn’t get there on time, and-

“Albus, your dad’s here! I can see him!” Scorpius pops up off the step, using Albus’s shoulder to push off from, which hurts.

“Scorpius,” Albus groans, brushing his hand off. 

“Sorry!” Scorpius chirps as he skips down the drive in Harry’s direction. 

Albus rubs his shoulder and follows at a more sedate pace, a faint nausea gathering in the pit of his stomach. By the time he catches up, Scorpius is talking at a million miles an hour and Harry is rubbing his forehead and looking slightly bemused, the way he always does when faced with Scorpius.

Albus walks up next to Scorpius and puts a hand on his arm. Scorpius falls quiet immediately and Albus swallows.

“Hi,” he says softly. 

Harry gathers his travelling cloak, the same one he’d been wearing when he came to rescue them last year, tight around himself and gives Albus a small smile. “Hi.”

“How were the Grindylows?” Albus asks, because it’s all he can think of to say.

Harry pushes his glasses up his nose and nods. “Better now. Hopefully we’ve managed to ward them off for good. It’s a big loch; they don’t even have to move that far.”

Albus smiles. “I guess you’ll find out soon.” He turns to Scorpius who is now bouncing from foot to foot, and it’s difficult to tell if he’s overexcited or freezing cold. “I hope you have a good feast,” he says.

Scorpius nods. “I’ll see you later.” He steps in and wraps Albus in a tight hug, and Albus can’t stop himself from returning it. He squeezes Scorpius and buries his face in his shoulder. 

“Happy Halloween,” he says, and Scorpius rubs his back. 

“I hope it is.”

“Just don’t get hypothermia and it will be,” Albus advises, pulling back and patting Scorpius on the arm. “Go and thaw out. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Scorpius nods, gives Harry a wave, then disappears back into the castle, leaving Harry and Albus alone on the windswept drive. 

Albus looks up at his dad, and Harry looks back, then he seems to shake himself. 

“Shall we go?” He says. “We can Apparate from outside the gates. We should be there early enough to get hot chocolate or something before it gets dark.”

“Okay,” Albus says, steadying himself. It’s going to be okay. Of course it is. His dad is here.

 

Albus stumbles sideways and gasps in a lungful of frigid afternoon air. His dad squeezes his arm to stop him falling.

“Are you okay?” Harry asks. 

Albus nods and takes another deep breath. “Fine. I don’t really like Apparating.”

“It’s not the nicest thing in the world,” Harry agrees. He reaches across and adjusts Albus’s hood, smoothing it down against his back. 

Albus shuffles his feet, reassuring himself of the hard ground beneath him, and begins to feel a little more safe and grounded. He looks around at where they’ve arrived to, and discovers that they’re outside the back door of the church. There are old flower arranging buckets stuffed with wilting flowers, and chunks of green foam with little holes in. There are candle stubs, and cardboard boxes, and a grit bin standing against one wall.

“People only come out here to throw things away,” Harry says, and Albus doesn’t question how he knows that. 

Beyond the edge of the little concrete square they’re standing on, the grass is growing, long and studded with raindrops – it must have rained here recently, the stone wall of the church looks damp, the cardboard boxes are a bit soggy, and the abandoned buckets are filling up with water. Nestled among the grass are hundreds of gravestones, covered with a patchwork of moss and lichen, in green and gold and white. Albus knows that his grandparents’ grave lies among them, on the other side of the church, ten rows back from the gate and five across. 

“Are we going to-“ Albus says, at the same time as Harry begins: “Do you think we should-“ They both break off and look at each other. Harry gestures over his shoulder, and Albus knows he’s pointing at that point beyond the church. 

“The grave,” he says. “Do you want to go and visit them?”

Albus nods. “I think we should. While we’re here.”

Together they make their way down the gravel path that runs round the front of the church. Albus glances up as they pass, gazing at the stained glass windows that stand tall and proud behind the altar. They must have been repaired over the years, because the panes are much more clean and vibrantly coloured than he remembers. The window burns like fire as the sun sets in a blaze of orange and red and gold behind them. He wants to turn round and go through the back door of the church, to stand and look at the colours that must be flooding the space, to try and find the grate he’d crawled through, the char marks on the floor from the battle, and the room where he’d sat and listened at the door as his dad hissed Parseltongue at Delphi. It all happened so long ago, but really not long ago at all, and it feels so painfully present when he’s here. 

It’s an effort to drag his gaze away from the windows, but he manages it. He has to hurry up to keep pace with his dad, and he follows when Harry leads the way off the path and between the gravestones. Their feet kick up sprays of water as they walk, droplets coating their shoes and the hems of their trousers and cloaks. 

Finally they stop in front of the grave. It’s unmarked by moss or lichen, and it’s unweathered, like no time has passed at all since it was put there. The white marble shines under the golden light of the setting autumn sun, and Albus digs his hands into his pockets in an attempt to resist the urge to reach out and trace the names of his grandparents, which are carved into the stone. 

“I never found out who did this,” Harry says, gesturing to the grave. “Sometimes I wonder if it was Dumbledore, but I‘ll probably never know.”

“Did they enchant it?” Albus asks, glancing at the graves on either side, which are cracked and crumbling and being eaten up by ivy. “To keep it so clean?”

Harry nods. “They must have. I almost wish they hadn’t. It still looks like they could have died yesterday.”

Yesterday. A year ago. Forty years. It almost doesn’t matter when it was if it still hurts, Albus thinks. He reaches across and brushes his fingers against his dad’s arm, wanting to offer him some comfort. His dad glances at him, then wraps an arm round his shoulder and hugs him. 

Albus crumples against his side and hugs him in return, squeezing him round the middle with both arms and clinging to him. He doesn’t know why he suddenly feels so sad about two people he’s never met properly. It’s not having known them that’s making it worse. 

He thinks about his grandma, tucking the blanket around his dad, pushing the pram down the snowy street, pausing to give him a bemused wave. She’d looked so nice. She’d looked so good, so beautiful, so brave. She’d looked the way a parent should look, like she was gentle and caring and patient, like the love was pouring out of her. 

Albus lifts his head and looks up at his dad, who’s staring at the grave, eyes sparkling like emeralds in the conflagration of the setting sun. 

“Dad,” he murmurs. “You know I love you, right?”

His dad looks at him, and his expression is unreadable, obscured by the shadow and sunlight. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I know.” He ruffles Albus’s hair, then gathers him in and holds him. Albus buries his face in his dad’s shoulder, twisting his hands into the thick woollen folds of the travelling cloak. 

There are a million things that Albus wants to say at that moment, but it’s easier to just stay quiet and hold tight to his dad’s cloak and enjoy the feeling of the dying sunlight on him. He swallows and shuffles his feet, and eventually they pull away. 

Harry glances down at the grave. “I am still sorry,” he says. “I always will be sorry. About the things I said to you. Making you feel like I didn’t love you; like you weren’t part of the family. It’s not true, and-“

“Dad,” Albus interjects softly. “I know.”

Harry doesn’t stop. “I _do_ love you, with everything I’ve got. You’re my son. Better than that, you’re _their_ grandson. I can see it every time I look at you. I can hear it every time you speak. You’re brilliant, Albus.”

“You can tell you’re their son too,” Albus says, looking at the grave. “I think they’d have been proud of you.”

His dad looks at him, a very long look, soft with surprise and love, and glazed with a thin film of tears. He doesn’t seem to know what to say, so Albus smiles at him, then digs his hands into his pockets and looks around.

“Why do we always have conversations like this while standing in a graveyard?”

Harry gives a slightly squelchy laugh and takes his glasses off while he wipes his face with his handkerchief. “You know what? That’s a very good question.”

Albus thinks about Scorpius. “Maybe that’s just what dead loved ones do to you... They make you more...” He gestures vaguely with his hand, unsure of the right word. 

“They make you appreciate the people you have,” Harry says, looking at Albus. Albus looks back at him and nods. 

They stand in front of the grave for a bit longer while Harry blows his nose and cleans his glasses, and the sun sets in front of them. Once the shadows of the graves have begun to stretch all the way to the stone wall of the graveyard, and darkness is really looming, they make their way back to the little gravel path that runs around the edge of the church, and head for the village square. 

As they walk towards the brightly-lit pub and the dark silhouette of the war memorial that’s actually a statue of Harry and James and Lily, they see doors begin to open along the lane up ahead, spilling out shafts of light. Albus catches hold of his dad’s arm and points.

“Look.”

They both stop dead and watch as people emerge, holding pumpkins under their arms. They leave their houses in twos or threes, chatting to their neighbours and smiling and laughing, and when they get to the lane they leave the pumpkins sitting just outside their gates, so they form a long river of light up the lane and away into the distance. A hundred carved faces, smiling out of the darkness and glowing gold, so the whole village is lit up, bright and friendly and cheerful. A tiny, mundane little village, transformed into the sort of place where evil is defeated and darkness is pushed out of the world. 

Albus looks at Harry, who grins at him, and there’s no real need to say anything when they both know what the other is thinking. This place is special, it’s beautiful, and they’re glad to be here tonight of all nights.

“I think we have time to get some dinner before the vigil,” Harry says, nodding towards the pub. 

“Yes please,” Albus says. It feels like a very long time since lunch, and he can’t quite stop thinking about the feast that’s being prepared at Hogwarts right now, that Scorpius will be sitting down to enjoy soon. 

They eat mostly in silence, listening to the buzz of conversation around them. The pub is busy enough for a Sunday night, full of locals discussing the best pumpkin carvings that they’ve seen so far, complaining about having to go to work in the morning, looking forward to Bonfire Night next weekend. It’s comforting listening to the bustle of ordinary life going on around them, especially when it’s combined with good food and flagons of Butterbeer. 

It’s amazing how normal Godric’s Hollow is, Albus thinks, considering all the extraordinary things that have happened here, and all the people who’ve lived in this place. It doesn’t seem like it should be possible for it to exist like this: as an ordinary village full of normal people living standard, unexciting lives – not when it’s had such a huge impact on the world, and on his family. 

“Are you eating the rest of your chips?” Harry asks, nodding at the abandoned pile at the edge of Albus’s plate.

Albus shakes his head. “No, you can have them.” He glances around at the people sitting near them, at the two men who are talking about gardening, at the group of women complaining about their bosses, at the young family who are making whooshing noises as they spoon food into their baby’s mouth. It’s so surreal, that life still goes on here. 

“Dad,” he says softly, after a minute or two of looking. 

Harry dips a chip into Albus’s leftover ketchup and nods. “Yeah?”

“Did you ever think of coming back here? You know, to live? Did you and Mum ever think of getting a house here or anything?”

Harry munches the chip for a moment, then he wipes his hands on a napkin. “I used to,” he says. “A little bit. But I don’t think I could have done it. I think we’re happier where we are. Why do you ask?”

Albus shrugs and takes one last chip from the pile. “Just wondering. I’m glad we’re in Ottery St Catchpole. It would have been weird being here. It doesn’t seem possible that you could just live here and be normal.”

Harry shakes his head. “No, it doesn’t.”

Together they finish the chips, then they leave the pub and head out into the frigid evening, following the ribbon of candlelight cast by the pumpkins across the square, past the memorial, and up the road. 

As they approach the ruined house they both start to slow down. Albus’s stomach is fluttering with nerves, and his dad is staring up ahead, pale and uncertain-looking.

“Dad,” Albus says softly. “Do you think we should... I don’t know, disguise ourselves...? People will recognise you.”

Harry glances at him and nods. “Maybe that’s a good idea. We can Disillusion ourselves. If we stand at the back we won’t be in anyone’s way.”

“Okay,” Albus agrees. 

Disillusionment is such a strange feeling. Albus shivers at the trickling cold down the back of his neck and lifts his hand, watching as it disappears before his eyes. He reaches out to touch his dad’s arm, just so he knows where he is, and ends up holding onto him as they set off down the street again. He doesn’t want to lose him or bump into him. 

Their approach to the vigil is silent and unseen. There are already a handful of people there when they arrive, all lighting candles and talking quietly. The person nearest the gate keeps glancing over their shoulder at the house, and one of their hands is resting on the mossy garden wall. Albus presses closer to his dad’s side, unsure what to do or what to say. 

Harry touches his side and guides him over to the wall, so they’re well out of the way. “Let’s stand over here.”

Albus leans against the wall and hugs himself. It’s starting to get really cold, almost as cold as it was on this night all those years ago. There’s no snow, but frost is sparkling on the ground in the candlelight, and the moon has a halo of ice crystals around it, making it look misty and diffuse. His breath fogs in the air when he exhales, and he hides his face in his scarf and turns around to look at the ruin of the house behind them. 

Most of it, at least the ground floor, is intact, although it’s overgrown with ivy that’s crept over the windows and door, obscuring them, a mass of greenery – Albus wonders if in summer there might even be climbing flowers that cling to these walls and make them bright and vibrant. The upper floor is half destroyed. The room that was once Harry’s bedroom is on the edge of the house, so the whole corner has been blown away. There’s a ragged hole where the walls should be, and the roof is mostly gone, leaving just bare beams, crumbling brick, and cracked tiles. Albus can see the night sky between the remaining fragments of wood and tiles. The stars are out, and it’s cloudless. 

Albus reaches out and finds his dad’s hand. He squeezes it tight as all the memories of last Hallow’s Eve come flooding back to him. The cold, cruel laughter, Lily and James begging and screaming for his dad’s life, his mum’s grip tight on the back of his jacket, his dad shaking and crying next to him, the ash and rubble falling all around them as they stood in the street. 

“Are you alright?” His dad murmurs. 

Albus doesn’t reply, he just tightens his grip and turns away from the house, not wanting to think about it anymore. 

The crowd gathering around the garden gate has swelled in the last couple of minutes. There are almost twenty people now, with more joining the group all the time, and soft, flickering pinpricks of light are spreading between them as they light their candles. The talk is dying down and there’s an energy in the air, a sort of potent emotion that doesn’t need articulating in words to be understood. 

As the crowd grows, Harry pulls Albus back further from the house, away from the wall, and across to the other side of the road, so they’re standing apart from everyone else. Albus wishes he could see his dad, because he can’t tell what he’s thinking. He can feel his dad’s hand shaking, but he doesn’t know what that means, whether it’s from the cold, or whether he’s nervous or upset. 

“Dad,” he whispers, trying to keep his voice as low as possible, so no one in the gathering crowd notices them. “You’re shaking.”

“All these people,” Harry breathes, voice unsteady. “Here for them.”

Albus hugs him. It takes a second to find exactly where his body is, but then he buries his face in his dad’s shoulder. His dad’s arms fold around him and hold him tight. His fingers brush through Albus’s hair, and Albus feels him press a kiss to his forehead. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” Harry says softly. “I’m glad I’m not here on my own.”

“We don’t have to stay,” Albus murmurs. “We don’t have to be here.”

“Do you want to go?” Harry asks, pulling back and holding Albus by the shoulders.

Albus thinks again about standing in this road last year: he thinks about the battle, the heat of the flames and Delphi’s voice shouting the Killing Curse, he thinks about Scorpius grasping his arm to steady him, and he thinks about a distant warm hall full of good food and laughter. But he also thinks about his dad, standing here alone in front of the ruined house. And as much as he wants to walk away and go back to school and find Scorpius, he can’t, because right now the most important thing is to be here with his dad. 

“No,” he whispers, trying to keep his voice from breaking. “I want to stay.”

His dad hugs him again, hard and tight, stroking his hair. They cling to each other for several long minutes, giving each other comfort and love, then Albus pulls back and wipes his nose on his sleeve, glad that it’s dark and that he’s invisible so no one can see the tears on his face.

“I wish Scorpius was here,” he sniffs, mopping at his cheeks. “I wish that...” He trails off as through the blur of his tears, he sees a pair of figures walking down the street from the outskirts at town. The taller one wears black robes; the shorter is wearing jeans, a green jacket, and a green and silver bobble hat. They both have white blond hair that seems to shine in the moonlight. They both look uncertain, pressed close together, footsteps slow and cautious as they approach the ruined house.

“Dad,” Albus says, and now his voice really does break. He swallows hard and nudges his dad’s arm. “Please can you make me visible again?”

His dad shifts next to him, turning around. “Why do you- Oh.”

Albus tugs on his dad’s sleeve, and as he looks down the road at his best friend the tears start to overwhelm him. “ _Please_ ,” he begs, because if there’s one thing he needs right now then it’s a hug from Scorpius.

“Yes, I- Yes.” 

There’s a brief pause, then Albus feels warmth creep up his spine as the spell dissolves, and he doesn’t hesitate for another second. He sets off running, past the crowd, not caring that people are turning to stare as he flies by seemingly from nowhere. All his focus is on Scorpius, and on getting to him as quickly as he can, and hugging him as tightly as possible. 

“Al-“ Scorpius begins as Albus runs to him, but he doesn’t get to finish the name before Albus is leaping at him and crushing him in a hug. They both stumble back several steps before Scorpius gets his footing. 

“Albus!” He says. “You’re strangling me, you-“

“You should be at the feast,” Albus sobs. “But you’re here, and- _You’re here_.”

“Yes,” Scorpius says, patting him on the back. “Yes I am here, but if you strangle me to death then I might not be here much longer.” He takes hold of Albus’s arms and picks him off, then studies him. “You’re a mess. Dad, can he have a tissue?”

Draco hesitates, still seeming rather taken aback by Albus’s sudden appearance from thin air, but then he nods and draws his wand, giving it a flick to conjure a tissue, which he hands to Albus. 

“Thanks,” Albus sniffs as he takes it and starts wiping his eyes. 

“Why are you crying?” Scorpius asks. “I mean, I suppose that’s obvious, but- Where’s your dad?”

“I’m here,” Harry says, walking up to them and putting a hand on Albus’s shoulder. Albus glances up and sees that he’s visible too now. He also sees that every single person by the house is looking at them and whispering. 

“Hi, Harry,” Scorpius says. 

“Hello, Scorpius.” Harry releases Albus’s shoulder. “Hello, Draco.”

“Is it alright?” Draco asks immediately. “Us being here? It was Scorpius’s idea, but I wasn’t sure whether- You know how much I hate to intrude on your personal life, Potter.”

Harry does a double take. “Do you? I’ve never noticed before.”

Albus stops wiping his eyes in time to see Draco shuffle his feet and look sheepish. 

“All I’m saying is that we can leave if you’d like. Or I can. I’m sorry we didn’t-“

“You were here,” Harry says, cutting across him. “That night. So you can be here now. And you don’t need to apologise. You’re both welcome.”

Draco pauses before nodding. “Good. We’ll stay then.” There’s another pause, then Draco glances at the staring crowd and puts a hand on Scorpius’s shoulder to shepherd him down the road. “We’re causing a disruption,” he says. “We should go and stand with everyone else. Come on, Scorpius.”

Albus walks beside Scorpius as they join the group, and Harry walks beside Draco. Albus is still wiping his eyes, and he notices Scorpius watching him, with a slightly concerned look. Albus glances at him and smiles. 

“You’re wearing a hat now,” he says, reaching up to tweak Scorpius’s bobble. “I thought you were good at handling the cold?”

“I am good at handling it,” Scorpius says, lifting his chin and making himself look all lofty. “I’m handling it by wearing a hat.”

Albus smiles and nudges him. “You definitely look warmer now.”

“I _feel_ a lot warmer,” Scorpius says, linking arms with Albus. He looks across at him and lowers his voice as they join the back of the crowd. “Are you okay? Has it been alright?”

Albus glances back at his dad and nods. “It’s been good. I just realised that it was weird being here without you.”

“Well, I’m here now,” Scorpius says, giving his arm a squeeze. 

Albus looks at the silver shine of his eyes, the frostbitten blush of his cheeks, the sudden intense seriousness of his expression. “I-I know,” he breathes, voice catching in his throat. “Thank you.” 

For a long moment they look at each other, and Albus doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. He almost doesn’t remember how to breathe anymore, and he certainly doesn’t know how to look away and save himself. Fortunately Scorpius looks away first, fracturing whatever it was that was passing between them. He gestures in Harry and Draco’s direction. 

“Do you think we should go and stand with our dads?”

Albus nods and turns away, now feeling very hot, cheeks burning. He hurries to stand by his dad, but he doesn’t miss Scorpius exhaling, cheeks puffed out and very pink, and running a hand through his hair. Maybe he wasn’t alone in feeling – whatever that was.

He doesn’t have long to think about that though, because as he tucks himself against his dad’s side at the back of the crowd, someone comes weaving toward them through all the people, most of whom are still staring. He feels his dad tense up slightly, and Albus understands why. This is the reason they planned to be invisible: people recognising them, picking them out of the crowd, wanting to see and speak to them, to offer condolences.

The woman stops in front of them, clutching a box full of candles. She looks nervous and uncertain, but she smiles. 

“Mr Potter-“

“Harry,” Harry says, and Albus presses a tiny bit closer to him, wanting to try and protect him somehow from whatever’s about to be asked of him. 

“Yes,” the woman says. “Harry, Albus. Um,” she hesitates and looks down at the box in her hands. “Would you both like a candle?”

Albus glances at his dad, who seems slightly taken aback, but after a moment he nods and takes one of the candles from the box, and Albus follows suit. 

“Thank you,” Harry says, and Albus echoes him. 

“You’re welcome,” the woman says. “It’s our pleasure to have you both here.” She gives them a little nod, then moves across to offer the candles to Draco and Scorpius. As she does, Albus notices that the people in the crowd are beginning to turn back around and stop staring, like they’ve realised the impact they were having.

Harry looks down at his candle and picks at the wick, then he draws his wand, lights it, and offers the flame to Albus. Albus lights his candle from Harry’s and watches the wax start to melt, pooling up at the base of the wick and dribbling down the sides. He catches it and lets it set on his finger, then cracks it off and looks around. 

Harry has lit Draco’s candle, and now Draco is lighting Scorpius’s, the tiny flame flickering in the breeze as it passes between them. All the candles are lit now. The road is full of people, maybe 30, maybe more. They stand shoulder to shoulder, heads bowed, silent, candles bathing their faces in pale light. No one speaks but there’s nothing that needs to be said. On this night, in this place, actions have always spoken much louder than words. 

Albus presses against his dad’s side, and Harry slips an arm round his shoulder and holds him close. It’s warm and comforting, and Albus is flooded with a sense of love and family and gratitude. 

This time last year had felt so isolating. Just him and Scorpius, trapped and alone, not even sure how to save themselves, let alone the world. And then when the adults had come it hadn’t felt much better. There had been no one with them, they were just seven small figures in the darkness and the cold, desperately trying to bring some light to the world. 

But now there are all these people here, all these people who have left the safety and warmth of their homes to stand in this street and remember. All these people who want to be with them, who want to be with James and Lily. And the street is glowing with candlelight, from the pumpkins and from the vigil, as they all think about the acts of love and bravery and kindness that continue to keep the darkness at bay.

Albus glances across at Scorpius and sees that Draco is hugging him very tight. He sees Draco plant a kiss onto the top of Scorpius’s head, over the wool of the bobble hat, and he sees Scorpius close his eyes, a small, sad smile on his face. He looks at the strangers in the crowd, old people and young people, people who might have known James and Lily, or who might just have read about them in the history books. All these ordinary people, just like James and Lily and Harry once were. Just another family, living and loving as best as they could. 

The Potters are still just an ordinary family, Albus thinks, in all the ways that matter. Maybe their names and faces are famous, but when they’re at home they’re just like everyone else, goading and fighting and teasing and making up and having fun. They just happen to have this house in their history, where their family has been torn apart and stitched back together over so many years.

Time ticks by, crystal clear and relentless, pulling them further into the future where everything is healed and everything is okay. And as midnight approaches there’s a crackling energy in the air, and the sense of love and gratitude becomes overwhelming. Albus can feel his dad’s tears falling, hot and wet in his hair, and he hugs him tighter, holding him up. 

In the distance, St Jerome’s clock strikes midnight. Twelve chimes that ring through the night, resonating with everyone, right to the heart. And as the last echo fades there’s complete silence and stillness for a moment, a respect for the collective knowledge that right here, in a different time, something momentous has just happened. 

When the moment fades, in complete silence, the villagers of Godric’s Hollow step forward and leave their candles in front of the gate, still burning, still bright, and then they walk away into the night, arms round each other, some pausing to put a hand on Harry’s arm as they pass by, until only Harry and Albus and Draco and Scorpius are left in front of the gate. 

Draco is the first to move. He walks up to the gate and sets his candle down at the base of the stone wall, then he brushes his hand along the top of the splintered gate with its chipped paintwork and bows his head. Scorpius goes over and joins him. He puts his candle next to his dad’s, then glances back at Harry and Albus. 

Albus gives Harry’s arm a gentle nudge. “Come on, Dad,” he whispers, and together he and his dad put their candles among all the rest of them and step back to look at the burning shrine outside the gate. 

“I’m glad we came,” Harry says, and Albus nods. “I’m glad you’re here too,” he says to Draco and Scorpius. 

“It’s not as if we had anywhere better to be,” Draco says, and Scorpius nods. 

“Who needs the feast,” Scorpius says. “When you can have-“ He gestures to the shrine, and the gate, and the house, and to Harry and Albus and his dad, and Albus smiles at him. 

“Maybe we can find some sweets when we get back to school. To make up for it.”

“Speaking of school,” Harry says, taking one final look at the shrine and the house, then shaking himself and looking around at the other three. “It’s late, and you two have lessons tomorrow. I think we should start heading back.”

Scorpius yawns and nods. “I like that idea.”

They all link arms and Apparate from outside the house back to Hogwarts. They walk up the drive together, Albus and Scorpius sticking side by side. They say goodbye to their dads at the castle doors. Albus gives Harry a crushing hug. 

“Thank you for coming with me,” Harry murmurs in his ear. 

“Thank you for letting me,” Albus whispers back. 

“It’s always my pleasure.”

Albus smiles and presses his face into his dad’s shoulder. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Harry replies, ruffling his hair and releasing him. 

Albus waits until Scorpius has finished hugging his dad goodbye, then they both wave to their dads and set off down into the dungeons.

They pull their pyjamas on and scramble into bed, and Albus digs out a bag of Pepper Imps, but Scorpius shakes his head and says he’s too tired for sugar. 

“I’m going to remember this,” Albus says. 

Scorpius yawns. “And I’m sure you’ll find a chance to blackmail me with it at some point.”

“Definitely.”

Scorpius smiles sleepily and lies back against his pillows. “I’ll look forward to that, but for now-“ He leans over and blows out the candle by his bed. “Goodnight, Albus. Happy Halloween.”

Albus thinks about the candles by the gate, still burning on through the night, he thinks about the warm glow in his heart, and he thinks about Lily tucking his dad in under the blanket, with so much love. He thinks about how glad he is that these days he can feel that love from his dad, that he can feel cared for, that he belongs, that he can feel proud to be a Potter. Then he blows out the candle by the side of his bed and snuggles down under his covers, feeling very content and very full up with love. “Happy Halloween,” he whispers.


End file.
